


wing shot

by bothareinfinite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kinda, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader has a vulva but there aren’t any gendered pronouns, Smut, Top Aziraphale, Wing Kink, by request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 20:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20180335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bothareinfinite/pseuds/bothareinfinite
Summary: You begin to turn back, reaching up to pull down the straps, but you’re stopped by a pair of soft, well-manicured hands grabbing your wrists.“I don’t believe,”  he says quietly, “I said you could take them off.”





	wing shot

**Author's Note:**

> based on a Tumblr request from @libbyangelofthelord: “Hi can you write a fic involving Aziraphale and a human reader? The reader jokingly buys a pair of angel wings to wear but the sight of her with wings sets Aziraphale off and he does her right there and then in the bookshop. And bonus points if Aziraphale gets very flustered afterwards for how he behaved.”  
Hope you enjoy. :)

When you get back from running errands, the bookshop looks so empty that you have to look around before you find Aziraphale. He’s deep in the stacks, reshelving returned unbought books, though he looks up with a distracted smile when he hears your voice. “Okay, so, I had to pass through the kids’ aisle on the way to the stationery, and I found something that I thought you’d get a kick out of.” He looks at you expectantly, and you shake your head. “You have to close your eyes first.”

“Now?”

“It’ll only take two seconds.”

“And why do I have to close my eyes?”

“Because it’s a surprise. It’s not as fun otherwise.”

He gestures to the cart of books besides him. “Darling, I’m—”

“You have to close them!” You bite your tongue. Aziraphale is indulgent a lover as any you could have dreamed up, but there are limits to how bratty you can be without incurring some kind of punishment. Right now, he’s giving you a look that indicates that limit isn’t far off. You change tactics. Soften the eyes, smile a bit, bite the lower lip just enough to look contrite… “Please?”

He sighs, but gives in, placing the book sideways on the cart. You grin, and rifle through the plastic bag to find the surprise. It takes you an extra few seconds to make sure you aren’t wearing them upside down, but you finally straighten the straps and pull your hair over your shoulder. 

“Ta-daa!” A few feathers come detached, fluttering to the floor as you twirl around to give him a better look. You give a little shimmy. “Aren’t they cute?”

He says nothing. Your heart sinks. Maybe he found them too silly? Or insulting, even, or maybe he— “Sorry. Sorry, I just saw them and thought it would be fun—I didn’t think it through, I guess.” You begin to turn back, reaching up to pull down the straps, but you’re stopped by a pair of soft, well-manicured hands grabbing your wrists.

“I don’t believe,” he says quietly, “I said you could take them off.”

And he spins you so that you stumble forward a step, bent over at the waist with your hands on the nearest shelf.

You’re about to put up a token protest—not a protest so much as a reminder that you’re in the shop, that said shop is open, that there could be customers—when you feel his hands on your legs, running them up from your knees to your outer thighs. When he reaches your hips, he pauses a moment before dragging your underwear down, then abandons them around your ankles. His hands slide back up, pushing your skirt up and out of the way so that he can see you. He takes two handfuls of your arse, kneading gently, spreading, and you’ve never felt this exposed in your life but you don’t want it to stop, and then, and _then_—

You feel his tongue.

He runs it up the length of your slit, and your knees nearly buckle. His hands firm on your hips, yours gripping the shelf until your knuckles nearly turn white; and he doesn’t tease, either. He dives in with long, languorous licks, his tongue hot, adding to the wetness that was already there, and you, spread before him, are powerless to do much of anything besides whine and press back into him. 

One hand releases your hip. You would complain, but before you hand a chance to do so, he’s reached it around to rub your clit, at which point your legs actually do give out, a bit. He’s quick to catch you, both hands back on your hips, holding you up with seemingly no effort, as he chuckles, mouth still pressed against your heat, and the noise sends the most delicious vibrations up your spine, and the most sordid moans out your mouth.

He pulls back. Kisses your thigh, then kisses it again, and again, a hot, open-mouthed gesture that turns into sucking, and then a bite. Just as it crosses your mind that he might kill you this way, he really might (but oh, what a way to go), he stands up, still gripping you firmly, and presses his hips into yours. It’s cruel, really. His erection is achingly hard and held tight against your naked, dripping entrance, touching, _teasing_. 

You summon what little strength you have left to shift back—the shelf doesn’t give you enough leverage to go as far as you want, but the intent is clear. And to your surprise, he obliges. Where he would normally drag it out, he instead pushes into you, and the pressure is so sudden and so needed that your back arches involuntarily, your mouth falling open in a wanting, wordless cry. 

He traces up your sides, stopping mid-back, and you realize he’s touching the wings, tracing around them with soft fascination. It’s short-lived, though, as his hands soon drift back down to find purchase on your waist. He pulls you back to meet each of his thrusts. There’s something almost primal about this, his loss of control, something new awakened deep within him. The pace is punishing, his fingers digging into your sides in a way that nearly borders on pain. But it’s still good, it strums a place you weren’t even aware existed, and you’re nearly laughing with the pleasure of it. The joy of letting go so completely, your grip on the shelf loosening, your mind clearing of anything but the feeling of Aziraphale inside you, there, there, _there_—

You come with a choked cry of his name, and he follows a few moments after. The withdrawal feels like a great loss. You don’t have the energy to complain, though, you barely have the energy to keep standing, to lean forward and press your cheek down onto the smooth wood of the shelf, and when your jelly-loose legs give out yet again, he catches you with an arm around your waist. He brings you back around to face him, and your arms wind up to meet behind his neck, your face nestled against the fabric of his jacket. 

“Hi,” you whisper, loopy and placid and humming with post-orgasm bliss. And you know angels don’t strictly need to breathe, not like humans do, but you swear, when he laughs again, he sounds quite breathless himself.

“I do believe,” he begins, bringing one hand up to stroke your hair, “I owe you an apology. I don’t know what came over me—”

You shake your head, lifting your head and pressing a soft, hungry kiss to the corner of his mouth. “No apologies. Just remind me to pick up about four more of these,” you gesture weakly to the wings, still firmly on your back, “next time I’m at the shop.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was such a cute prompt and so much fun to write! I am SUCH a sucker for external validation, so if you enjoyed this and you’re considering leaving a comment (or if you didn’t and you wanna yeet some constructive criticism), do it and I will love you forever. :)  
I have some other request-based fics in the works, but I’m still taking more requests if you have!
> 
> bisous,  
bothareinfinite
> 
> (If you want to chat on tumblr, you can find me @goodomensandsmut)


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